Shades of Grey
by narie the waitress
Summary: A quick snippet concerning the passing of the Grey Company - but probably not in the sense that you think. Spawned by the Anything, But Ordinary! HASA Nuzgul.


All disclaimers apply. Do not sue.  
  
Shades of Grey  
narie_the_waitress 

It would be a most wonderful wedding. Guests would come from both   
near and far, family relations, friends. He loved her, and she loved   
him, and when her father had finally acquiesced and deemed him worthy   
enough of his daughter, that had been the happiest day of her life.  
  
She was a pretty sliver of a girl, the bride was; small and lithe   
and thin and wiry, a whirlwind of joy. He was as similar to her as a   
pea and a pear were similar - not at all. He was silent and shady   
except in her presence, where his love for her lit up what few dark   
corners would otherwise escape her radiating light.   
  
Meluiell was her name, she being the fruit of an exceedingly   
romantic couple, but when they were alone under the stars exploring one   
another Meleithel he called her lovingly, because in the light in her   
eyes he could see her endless love for him, a love that he reciprocated   
manifold, he claimed repeatedly. If it had been up to him he would have   
done anything, anything at all, for her undimished happiness, but he   
was wise enough to know that whims could not be accommodated every time   
- nay, not even most of the time - and it was thus that with a heavy   
heart he had already taken his leave of her more than once, to fulfill   
a duty much older than himself and to maintain promises made many   
generations ago.  
  
He had already stood guard often, left with the other men many   
times before, and every night he was away she would lie sleepless,   
hoping that he would return to her safe. And when he came back and was   
unanimously lauded for his skill with bow and arrow or sword and dagger   
she hated them, hated all of them who had even a single word of praise   
for him. She wanted to make them all swallow their words, wanted him to   
stay by her side and not lose him to some vile beast spawned by the   
foul darkness, like she had seen happen to her elder sister. She wanted   
the two of them to be together forever, and even if she did not want to   
be a mother yet - so early, so very early - she wanted him near her   
now, now that she was young and beautiful and was still filled with the   
hope she had seen time suck from her elders.   
  
But at the same time she was also proud of him, so very proud of   
him who was brave enough to face the terror and fight, to valiantly   
take up a sword that some were quite reluctant to wield as of late,   
that some lacked the hope to believe in.   
  
Now, regardless, he was going away from her once again, riding   
south to join the Chieftain, and she was frightened - terrified - that   
she would never see him again, that he would be slain in a far off land   
and all she would have left would be a memory of whispering caresses   
underneath a starry summer sky. Certainly, she lacked no faith in the   
Chieftain - she had never met him but she, like everyone else, had   
heard of his many journeys and services abroad and had complete   
certainty in his abilities not as leader of Men - of her people - but   
as a great leader of Men. Nor did she fear that the Chieftain, reaching   
his prime and still unmarried would suddenly perish and leave behind   
him nothing but a people without a purpose. In her mind - as in the   
minds of mostly everyone she could name - Elendil's line had not   
survived until now simply for the sake of suddenly vanishing now. Had   
he not reforged Narsil already? This Chieftain seemed doomed to a   
greater fate than that of all the ones before him, so that none   
begrudged him his reluctance to take a wife - the wild could be   
unforgiving, but had not ancient legends been charmed and avoided   
certain death time and again in order to face their fate? Had not Beren   
crossed the imprenetable Girdle of Melian alone? Why should it be   
different now, they who shared the same blood? No, clearly, the   
untimely death of the Chieftain would come about solely if the Shadow   
was not successfully defeated, but instead triumphal - and a world   
where the Shadow prevailed and where Hope perished was not worth   
dwelling upon.   
  
He would be the only one setting out today - their settlement   
being located almost at the point where the Bruinen and the Mitheithel   
met and joined into one, it had simply been the place where the Grey   
Company had been forced to rest their horses. And he, - sweet he -   
having heard of their purpose had serenely asked to be allowed to ride   
with them. His skill having been vouched for by many, a somewhat   
quizzical (and unearthly) Half-Elven eyebrow had been arched and he had   
been told to prepare for departure at sundown, if he really intended to   
join them. And so, with trepidation and fear for her beloved she went   
about her duties, anxiously awaiting the moment when she knew he would   
come find her for their little farewell ritual.  
  
The sun was moving towards the West - this Company paying no   
attention to day and night, but simply to the needs of the horses, and   
the whole settlement was busily striving to aid the travelers in any   
manner possible. Horseshoes were needlessly being rechecked, arrows   
fletched or generously given, leather saddles oiled, horses watered and   
fed one final time before departing into the forlon wild. The Company,   
after all, rode not to war, but to War. To the Great War that would   
decide the fate of everything. And as such, it deserved (and obtained)   
the best they could give it, because with it rode their most heartfelt   
hopes.  
  
Soon, they would leave; he would leave - she knew the other men   
not, and even if she did, it was unlikely that she would have mustered   
as much feeling for the whole Company as she did for him alone.   
  
As she was rushing about in the growing darkness, looking for   
some more hay for the horses, a pair of arms reached for and encircled   
her waist. Without hesitation she turned around, fumbling around her   
tunic for the little token she had placed there earlier and once she   
had found it, standing on the tip of her feet, reached over to his left   
shoulder and pinned it upon his shoulder, the little many-pointed star   
brooch. She took two steps back and looked at him approvingly. He was   
tall and dark, but that was hardly surprising, considering his   
ancestry. Yet he stood straight as a rod, sword at his side, bow and   
pack slung at his back, the feathered ends of his arrows peeking over   
his right shoulder when he shifted on his two feet.   
  
He looked pointedly at her, and she knew what he was going to   
say, because he had already said it many times before. It mattered very   
little what they were thinking, because their private ceremony was an   
inviolable part of their lives, which would change for aught.   
  
"Take care, oh, Meleithel," he said softly.   
"Only if you do, Dolladan, only if you do," she replied, eyes   
glimmering with more than their traditional mischievous glint.  
  
And with nothing more than that he reached forward and hugged her   
solemnly, an embrace she returned with as much sobriety. They were not   
of the sort to indulge in banal displays of affection. When he pulled   
away, he glanced long at her one final time, seeking to memorize her   
features in the dimming light, and then, without a word, turned around   
and headed back to the spot where the Grey Company awaited him, all but   
two saddles occupied. One horse was belonged to him, the remaining one   
was riding unmounted in search of its master.  
  
Her task forgotten she stood in the gloom and watched as the   
rising moon bathed everything in an otherworldly pallor. Blinking   
quickly, she reassured herself. She would not cry. There was no reason   
to cry. This was the world into which she had been born, and this was   
the world where she would die. Their parting was as natural to it as   
the coming of autumn and falling leaves. Bittersweet and unavoidable.   
  
She would not sleep well tonight. Nor tomorrow, nor the day after   
that. But at the very least she would lay awake at night knowing that   
if he was gone, it was because he was fighting for what he believed in,   
defending what she, what they all, had always believed in. And while it   
did not bring her happiness, it was enough consolation to dull the   
anguish of loneliness.   
  
  
--  
  
Brought to you in the week-before-finals as spawned by the Anything,   
but Ordinary Nuzgul. Magnificent sense of timing, really.  
  
Dolladan - gloomy man.  
Meleithel - well of love.  
Meluiell - lovely girl.  
  
All names chosen mostly for the sake of their 'hideous petname' value.   
Sindarin roots obtained from the Hiswel¢k‰ Dictionary. Especially the   
first two, which are intended to read like given petnames, while the   
last is solely a result of overly loving parents.  
  
Many heartfelt thanks to Isabeau, Meg, Dwim, Mike and everyone else at   
HA who contributed information to my research, even if most of it did   
not actually make it into the story. At least I can say I have   
certainly been enlightened.  
  
Commentary of all sorts more than welcome.   
  
narie,   
Chicago, 14.03.03   
  
(bakanarie@hotmail.com,  
http: // paginas.terra.com.br/arte/bakanarie)  



End file.
